I arrived at the TORT building before 9.00 a.m. on Tuesday morning. The night security guard was still on duty, sitting at Yetta Apatoff's desk.
'There was a telephone call for you about fifteen minutes ago, Mr Bigg,' he said. 'The guy wouldn't leave a name or message, but said he'd call back.'
'Thank you,' I said, and went back to my office. My phone rang before I had chance to take off my coat. I picked it up and said, 'Hello?' A man's voice growled,
'You the guy who put up the posters?' I said I was. He 304
said, 'How much is the reward?'
I hadn't even considered that. Fifty dollars seemed insufficient; a hundred might tempt a lot of fraudulent claims. But rather, I reasoned, too many replies than too few.
'A hundred dollars,' I said.
'Shit,' he said, and hung up.
The second call came in ten minutes later. Once again the first question asked was: 'How much?'
'A hundred dollars,' I said firmly.
'Yeah, well, I carried the guy. Picked him up on Central Park West and 70th Street the night of January 10th.'
'What did he look like?'
'Well, you know, an average-sized guy. I didn't get a real good look at him, but I'd say he was average.'
'Kind of short, fat, dumpish?'
'Yeah, you could say that.'
'Wearing a sweater and jacket?'
'Yeah, that's the guy.'
'No, it isn't,' I said.
'Fuck you,' he said and hung up.
I sighed, finished my strawberry strudel and black coffee, and started mechanically answering some of the routine research and investigation requests. I wondered if I dared bother Percy Stilton with what I had discovered — the houseboat at 79th Street — and what I was beginning to guess about how Godfrey Knurr had murdered Sol Kipper.
Stilton solved the problem by calling me at about 10.00
a. m.
'Listen, Josh,' he said, speaking rapidly, 'I know you didn't want me to call you at your office, but this is important. I've only got a minute. Can you meet me in the lobby of the Newsweek building? 444 Madison? Between 49th and 50th?'
'Well, yes, sure,' I said. 'But I wanted — '
'About five minutes before four o'clock this afternoon.'
'I'll be there, Perce,' I said, making rapid notes on my scratchpad. 'But here are a few things I — '
'Got to run,' he said. 'See you then.'
The line went dead. I hung up slowly, bewildered. The phone rang again almost immediately and I plucked it up, hoping Stilton was calling back.
'Josh,' Yetta Apatoff said, giggling, 'you haven't forgotten our lunch today, have you?'
'Of course not,' I lied bravely. 'What time?'
'Noon,' she said. 'I've got a lot to tell you.'
'Good,' I said, my heart sinking.
Another call:
'Yeah, I picked up the guy on that night. A tall, skinny gink, right?'
'Could be,' I said. 'And where did you take him — to the Eastern Airlines ticket office on Fifth Avenue?'
'Yeah,' he said, 'you're right.'
'Waited for him and then drove him back to Central Park West and 70th Street?'
'Uh. . yeah.'
'No,' I said, 'I don't think so.'
He suggested an anatomical impossibility.
Inwardly cursing the venality of mankind, I hung up, then phoned the Kipper house. Chester Heavens answered.
We exchanged polite greetings, inquired as to the state of each other's health, and spoke gravely about the weather, which we agreed was both pleasant and bracing for that time of year.
'Chester,' I said, 'Mr Kipper died on Wednesday, January 24th. Is that correct?'
'Oh yes, sah,' he said sombrely. 'I shall never forget that date.'
'I don't suppose you will. I know Mr Godfrey Knurr arrived a few moments after the tragedy. Now my question is this: do you recall if he was at the house on Tuesday, January 23rd, the day before Mr Kipper died?'
Silence. Then. .
'I can't recall, sah. But if you'll be good enough to hang on a moment, I'll consult the book.'
'Wait, wait!' I said hastily. 'What book?'
'The house diary, sah,' he said. 'The first Mrs Kipper insisted it be kept. It was one of my father's duties. After the first Mrs Kipper and my father had both passed away, I kept it with the approval of the second Mrs Kipper. What it is, sah, is a diary or log of visitors, delivery of packages, repairs to the house, appointments, and so forth. Many large homes keep such a daily record, sah. It is invaluable when it becomes necessary to send Christmas cards, thank you notes, invitations, or to question tradesmen about promised deliveries and things of that nature.'
'Very efficient,' I said, beginning to hope. 'Could you consult the log, please, Chester, and see if the Reverend Knurr visited on Tuesday, January 23rd?'
'Just a moment, sah.'
He was gone more than a moment. I had crossed all fingers of both hands and was trying to cross my toes within my shoes when the butler came back on the phone.
'Mr Bigg?' he said. 'Are you there?'
'I am here,' I told him.
'Yes, sah, the diary shows that the Reverend Knurr visited on Tuesday, January 23rd. He arrived at approximately 3.30 p.m.'
'Any record of when he left?'
'No, sah, there is no record of that.'
'Thank you, Chester,' I said gratefully, uncrossing my digits. 'Just out of curiosity, where is this house diary kept?'
'In the kitchen, sah. In the back of one of the cutlery drawers.'
'I wonder if you would do me a favour, Chester. I wonder if you would take the house diary to your apartment and conceal it carefully. I realize that is a strange 307
request, but it is very important.'
He didn't speak for a while. Then he said softly:
'Very well, Mr Bigg, I shall do as you request.'
'Thank you,' I said.
'My pleasure, sah,' he said.
My case was looking better and better. I thought I had Knurr cold, and I refused to worry about how I might begin to prove it.
'I'll check in later,' I told Chester conspiratorially.
'I'll look forward to it, sah,' he said, then rang off.
The high points of my long, dull morning were two more inconclusive calls from cabdrivers. A few minutes before noon I went into the men's room to freshen for lunch with Yetta. At an adjoining basin Hamish Hooter was combing his black greasy locks sideways in a futile effort to conceal his growing tonsure.
He saw me reflected in the mirror and sucked his teeth noisily.
'See here, Bigg,' he said, the voice reedy but not aggrieved; smug, in fact. 'I understand you're having lunch with Yetta Apatoff today.'
'You understand correctly,' I said coldly.
He dried his hands busily on one paper towel. About a year previously, he had circulated a memo about the wasteful practice of using more than a single paper towel.
Hooter examined himself in the mirror with every evidence of approval. He passed a palm over his slickeddown hair. He attempted to straighten his rounded shoulders. He inhaled mightily, which caused his pot belly to disappear until he exhaled.
'Well,' he said, turning to face me, 'have a good time.
Enjoy it while you can.' Then he gave me a foxy grin and was gone.
When I walked out to meet Yetta, I saw at once that she was 'dolled up' and looked especially glowing and attractive. I thought this was in anticipation of lunch with me, and I swelled with male satisfaction. At the same time I imagined how shattered she would be by the can't-we-be-friends speech I had in mind. Especially when she'd gone to so much trouble.
Instead of the usual knitted suit she was wearing a dress of some shimmering stuff with a metallic gleam.
About her blonde curls was bound a light blue chiffon scarf. The electric combination of blue and green enhanced her creamy complexion, sweetly curved lips, and the look of innocence in those limpid brown eyes. Was I being too hasty in putting our relationship on a purely friendly basis?
We walked over to the Chinese restaurant, Yetta chattering briskly about a movie concerning creatures from outer space who descend to earth and turn everyone into toadstools. She assured me it had been one of the scariest movies she had ever seen.
'Also,' she added, 'it made you think.'
Then she babbled on about a used car her brother was thinking of buying, and about a girl she went to high school with who had recently obtained a job with the telephone company. Even for Yetta it was a manic performance.
All became clear over the wonton soup.
She reached across the table to put a hand heavily on mine and, since it was the hand holding my spoon, a fat wonton plumped back into the soup.
'Josh,' she said breathlessly, 'I wouldn't hurt you for the world.'
I stared at her, perplexed.
'First of all,' she started, 'I want it definitely understood that you and I can still be friends.'
Naturally I resented that. It was my line.
'Second of all,' Yetta went on, 'I have really enjoyed knowing you and these lunches and everything. I will never forget you, Josh.'
'What — ' I began.
'And third of all,' she said in a rush, 'Hamish Hooter asked me to marry him and I said yes. I know that must be a real downer for you, Josh, but I want you to know that I think I'm doing the right thing, and I've given it a lot of thought. He's not as cute as you are, Josh, that I freely admit, but he says he loves me and he needs me. Josh, you don't need me. Do you?'
There was no answer to that. I stared down into my soup bowl, saw it whisked away and a Number Three Combination slid into its place.
'Josh, don't take it too hard,' Yetta pleaded. 'It's best for all of us.'
Could I tell her that my heart was leaping upwards like a demented stag?
'You have your work,' she continued, 'and I know how important it is to you. Will you pass the sweet-and-sour sauce, please? So I thought — Hamish and I thought — that this would be the best way to tell you, honestly and straight out. He wanted to be here, but I said it would be best if I told you myself. . Josh,' Yetta Apatoff continued, staring at me with those guileless eyes, 'I hope you don't hate me?'
'Hate you?' I said, keeping any hint of glee out of my voice. 'How could I? All I want is what makes you happy.
Yetta, I wish you the best of everything. Hooter is a very lucky man.'
'Oh, Josh,' she said, sighing, 'you're so nice and understanding. I knew you would be. I told Hammy — that's what I call him: Hammy — I said, "Hammy, his heart may be broken, but he'll wish me the best of everything." That's what I told Hammy. Josh, is your heart broken? Could I have the mustard, please?'
I resisted the urge to suggest to Yetta that we go Dutch, and the lunch hour passed reasonably amicably, all things considered.
My first visitor upon my return to TORT was Hamish 310
Hooter. 'See here, Bigg,' he said. 'I guess Yetta told you the news?'
'She did,' I said, 'and I want to wish the two of you the best of everything.'
'Yes?' he said, surprised. 'Well, uh, thanks.'
'I hope you'll be very happy together,' I went on enthusiastically. 'I'm sure you will be. Congratulations.'
'Uh, thanks,' he said again. 'Listen, Bigg, you're being very decent about this.'
I made an 'it's nothing' gesture.
'If there's anything I can d o. . ' he went on lamely.
'Well, there is something. You know I've got an assistant now. Temporary at the moment, but my workload seems to increase every day. If a larger office becomes available, I'd appreciate it if you'd keep me in mind.'
'Well, uh, sure,' he said. 'I'll certainly do that.'
'Thank you.' I said humbly. 'And once again, I wish you every happiness.'
Next I did what most TORT employees did when they had an intraoffice problem: I went to Thelma Potts.
The news had already spread; she greeted me with a sympathetic smile. 'I'm sorry, Mr Bigg,' she said.
'The better man won,' I said.
Then she said something so completely out of character that she left me open-mouthed.
'Bullshit,' Thelma Potts said. 'You're well out of it. The girl is a moron. Not for you.'
' W e l l. . ' I said, 'at least you won.'
'You did, too,' she assured me with some asperity. 'Did you come up here for sympathy?'
'Not exactly,' I said. 'I've got a problem. Nothing to do with Yetta,' I added hastily.
'What's the problem?'
'I want to get together with Mr Teitelbaum and Mr Tabatchnick in a kind of conference. I have a lot to tell them, and it's very important, but I don't want to tell them
separately. I was hoping you would speak to Ada Mondora and maybe the two of you might arrange something.'
'It's that important?'
'It really is, Miss Potts. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't. It concerns a case each of them is handling, and the two cases have come together in a very peculiar fashion.'
'Kipper and Stonehouse?' she asked.
'Miss Potts,' I said, 'is there anything you don't know?'
'Ada and I have lunch together almost every day,' she said. 'When do you want to meet with the two Mr T's?'
'As soon as possible.' I thought of my appointment with Detective Percy Stilton. 'Not today, but tomorrow. If you can set it up.'
'I'll talk to Ada,' she said, 'and we'll see what we can do.
I'll let you know.'
'Thank you,' I said gratefully. 'I don't know what we'd all do without you.'
She sniffed.
I bent swiftly to kiss her soft cheek.
'Now that I've been jilted,' I said 'I'm available.'
'Oh you! ' she said.
I returned to my office and took calls from two more cabdrivers, one of them drunk, then did routine stuff until it was time to leave for my meeting with Stilton. I packed my scruffy briefcase, put on hat and coat, and peeked cautiously out into the corridor.
Yetta Apatoff was seated at her receptionist's post, hands clasped primly on the desk. I ducked back into my office and waited a few moments. When I peeked out again, she was in the same position, still as a statue. I ducked back inside again. But the third time I peered out, she was busy on the phone, and I immediately sailed forth and gave her a sad smile and a resigned wave of my hand as I passed.
Cowardly conduct, I know.
I arrived early at the Newsweek building. A few minutes 312
before 4.00 p.m., Percy Stilton came up behind me and stuck a hard forefinger in my ribs.
'Perce,' I said, 'I've got to tell you. I was — '
'Sure,' he said, 'but later. We've got a four o'clock appointment with Bishop Harley Oxman. He's in charge of personnel for the church the Reverend Godfrey Knurr belongs to. You just do as little talking as possible and follow my lead. In this scam, you play a lawyer.'
'I've got Mr Tabatchnick's business card,' I offered.
'Beautiful,' he said. 'Flash it.'
The church's personnel headquarters was a brightly lighted, brisk, efficient-appearing office in a five- or six-storey commercial building on Forty-ninth between Madison and Park. The walls were painted a no-nonsense beige, the floors covered with practical vinyl tile; partitions between individual offices were steel. I saw no paintings of a religious nature on view. Typewriters clacked away merrily. Men and women moving along the corridors were all in mufti. Percy and I approached the matronly receptionist, and Perce identified himself. She didn't seem surprised that the Bishop would be meeting with a detective of the New York Police Department. She spoke briefly into an intercom, then gave us a wintry smile.
'You may go right in,' she said. 'Turn left outside, go to the end, and turn right. Last office.'
We found the Bishop's office with no difficulty. The door was opened before we had a chance to knock. The man greeting us was tall and broad, though somewhat stooped and corpulent. He was wearing an old-fashioned suit of rusty cheviot and a grey doeskin waistcoat with white piping. His polka-dot bowtie was negligently knotted.
He had a very full, almost bloated face, ranging in hue from livid pink to deep purple. The full, moist, bright rose lips parted to reveal teeth of such startling whiteness, size, and regularity that they could only have been 'store-bought.' Set into this blood pudding of a face were sharp eyes of ice blue, the whites clear. And he had a great shock of steel-grey hair, combed sideways in rich billows.
'I am Bishop Oxman,' he intoned in a deep resonant voice. 'Won't you gentlemen come in?'
He ushered us into his office and seated us in leather armchairs in front of his glass-topped desk. Perce Stilton slid his identification across the desk without being asked, and I hastily dug in my wallet and did the same with Mr Tabatchnick's business card.
While the Bishop was examining our bona fides slowly and with interest, I studied the bare office, its single bookcase, artificial rubber plant, and a framed photograph behind the Bishop. It appeared to be Bishop Oxman's seminary graduating class.
He returned our identification to us, sat back in his swivel chair, squirmed slightly to make himself more comfortable, then laced his pudgy fingers across his paunch. He wasted no time on pleasantries.
'Detective Stilton,' he said in his rumbling bass-baritone, 'when we spoke on the phone, you stated that a situation had arisen concerning one of our pastors that might best be handled by discussing it with me personally.'
He glanced briefly at me. 'And privately.'
'Yes, sir,' Percy said firmly but with deference. 'Before any official action is taken.'
'Dear me,' Bishop Oxman said with a cold smile, 'that does sound ominous.' But he didn't seem at all disturbed.
'It's something I think you should be aware of,' Stilton went on, speaking with no hesitation. 'Mr Tabatchnick here represents a young woman who claims she was swindled out of her savings and an inheritance — slightly over ten thousand dollars — by one of your clergymen who promised her he could double her money in six months.'
'Oh my,' Bishop Oxman murmured.
'This young lady further alleges that she was persuaded to hand over her money by the promise of the pastor that 314
he would marry her as soon as her money increased.'
'What is the young lady's name?' the Bishop asked.
'I don't believe that is germane to this discussion at the present time,' Percy Stilton said.
'How old is the young lady? Surely you can tell me that?'
Stilton turned to me.
'Mr Tabatchnick.' he said, 'how old is your client?'
'Twenty-three,' I said promptly.
Oxman turned those piercing eyes on me.
'Has she been married before?'
'No, sir. Not to my knowledge.'
The Bishop raised his two hands, pressed them together in an attitude of prayer, then put the two forefingers against his full lips. He appeared to be ruminating. Finally:
'Is your client pregnant, Mr Tabatchnick?'
Stilton looked at me.
'Yes, sir,' I said softly, 'she is. I have seen the doctor's report. My client attempted to contact the clergyman to tell him, but was unsuccessful.'
'She called the phone number he had given her,' Stilton broke in, 'a number she had previously used, but it had been disconnected. Both she and Mr Tabatchnick went to his apartment, in the Murray Hill section of Manhattan, but apparently he had moved and left no forwarding address. Mr Tabatchnick then reported the matter to the police, and I was assigned to the investigation. I have been unable to locate or contact the man. I felt — and Mr Tabatchnick agreed — that it would be best to apprise you of the situation before more drastic steps were taken.'
'And what is this clergyman's name?'
'The Reverend Godfrey Knurr,' Percy said. 'That's K-n-u-r-r.'
The Bishop nodded and pulled his phone towards him.
He dialled a three-digit number and waited. Then:
'Timmy? Would you see if you can find a file on 315
Godfrey Knurr? That's K-n-u-r-r,' he rumbled, then hung up. Speaking to us again, he announced with solemnity,
'Unfortunately this is not a unique situation. But I must tell you that frequently the minister involved is entirely innocent. A young woman misinterprets sympathy and understanding. When the pastor tries to convince her that his interest is spiritual she becomes hysterical. In her disturbed state, she makes all kinds of wild accusations.'
'Yes, sir,' Stilton said, 'I can imagine. But a complaint has been made and I've got to check it out.'
'Dear me, of course! In any event I'm glad you came to me before pursuing the matter further. It's possible the clergyman in question is not a clergyman at all, but a con man acting the role and preying on lonely women.'
But such was not to be the case. The Bishop had hardly ceased speaking when there was a light tap on the office door, it was opened, and a young man entered with a manila folder. He placed it carefully on Oxman's desk and turned to leave.
'Thank you, Timmy,' the Bishop called. Then he picked up the folder and read the label on the tab. Then he looked at us. 'Oh dear,' he said dolefully, 'I'm afraid he's one of ours. Godfrey Mark Knurr. Well, let's see what we've g o t. . '
He began to scan the documents in the folder. We sat in silence, watching him. One of the things he looked at was a glossy photograph.
'Handsome man,' he said.
We waited patiently while the Bishop went through all the papers. Then he shut the folder. 'Oh dear, oh dear,' he said with a thin smile, 'it appears that Mr Knurr has been a naughty boy again.'
'Again?' Stilton said.
Bishop Oxman sighed. 'Sometimes,' he said, 'I feel there should be limits to Christian charity. The Reverend Knurr came to us from Chicago where he served as assistant pastor. He seems to have been very popular with the congregation. It appears that he became, ah, intimate with the twenty-two-year-old daughter of one of the vestrymen.
When her pregnancy could no longer be concealed, she named Mr Knurr, claiming he had promised to marry her.
In addition, she said, she had made several substantial loans to him. Loans which were never repaid, needless to say. The affair seems to have been hushed up. Knurr, who continued to protest his innocence despite some rather damming evidence against him, was banished from Chicago and sent here.'
'Can they do that, sir?' I asked curiously. 'Can the church of another city stick New York with one of their problems?'
'Well,' the Bishop said, 'Knurr may have been part of, ah, an exchange programme, so to speak. One of their bad apples for one of ours. Of course there was no possibility of Knurr getting a church here. We are already burdened with a worrisome over-supply of clergymen, and their numbers are increasing every year. But I assure you that the great majority of our pastors are honourable, Godfearing men, deeply conscious of their duties and responsibilities.'
'So what did you do with Knurr?' Stilton asked.
'He retained his collar,' Oxman said, 'and was allowed to make his own way, with the understanding that because of his record, assignment to a parish was out of the question. According to these records, our last communication from the Reverend Godfrey Knurr was a letter from him requesting permission to open a sort of social club for underprivileged youngsters in Greenwich Village. He felt he could raise the required funds on his own. Permission was granted. But there is nothing in his file to indicate if he actually followed through on his proposal. And, I am sorry to say, there is no current address or telephone number listed.'
'Where was the letter sent from?' Detective Stilton asked.
'The one that asked permission to open the social club?'
'Oh dear,' he said. 'No address given.'
'How about next-of-kin?' Stilton asked. 'Have you got that?'
'Yes, that I know we have,' the Bishop said, digging through the papers. 'Here it is. A sister, Goldie Knurr, living in Athens, Indiana. Would you like the address?'
'Please,' the detective said.
Percy and I were the only ones in the elevator going down. 'You did fine,' Stilton said.
'Thank you.'
'But I knew you would,' he went on, 'or I'd have made you rehearse. The scam was necessary, Josh, because if I had just waltzed in there and asked to see the file on Knurr, without a warrant or anything, the Bishop would have told me to go peddle my fish. He looks sleepy, but he's no dummy.'
In the lobby, Stilton paused to light a cigarette.
'Perce,' I said, 'how did you get on to this office? I didn't even know which sect Knurr belongs to.'
'I looked him up in the telephone book and got the address of that boys' club of his in Greenwich Village.
Then I called Municipal Records downtown and got the name of the owner of the building. Then I went to see him and got a look at Knurr's lease for that storefront. Like I figured, when he signed the lease he had to give a permanent or former address. It was the headquarters of his church. I called them and they referred me to Bishop Oxman's personnel offices. So I called him.'
I shook my head in wonderment.
'It's a lot easier,' the detective assured me, 'when you can flash your potsy.' He looked at his watch. 'I've got maybe a half-hour. You have something to tell me?
There's a bar around the corner. Let's have a beer and I'll listen.'
In the corner of a small bar on East 48th Street I asked,
'Perce, that story you dreamed up about Knurr swindling a girl in New York was almost word for word what he actually pulled out in Chicago. How did you know?'
He shrugged. 'I didn't,' he said. 'Josh, the bad guys don't have all the luck. Sometimes we get lucky, too. I figured if we were right about him, that con about your client would be right in character. Now I'm wondering if we got enough on the guy for me to go to my lieutenant and ask that the Kipper case be reopened.' He pondered a moment. 'No, I guess not,' he said finally. 'What happened in Chicago a couple of years ago is just background. It's got fuck-all to do with how Sol Kipper died. You got things to tell me?'
I told him about the reward posters and the calls that had come in, and how I had obtained copies of the chemical analyses of Professor Stonehouse's brandy.
'Mmm,' Stilton grunted. 'Good. More paper.'
I told him I had obtained a photograph of Glynis Stonehouse and the name of the clinic where she presently did volunteer work and the medical laboratory where she had been employed a year ago.
'I checked out the clinic on the phone,' I said, 'and they claim they don't stock poisons. It sounds logical; it's an eye, ear, nose and throat clinic for children. I got nowhere with the medical lab.'
'Give me the name and address,' the detective said. 'I'll pay them a call.'
He copied the information into his elegant little notebook.
Finally I told him about following Glynis Stonehouse to her rendezvous with Godfrey Knurr, and then tailing the two of them to the 79th Street boat basin.
'That's interesting,' Stilton said thoughtfully. 'You're doing fine, Josh.'
'Thank you,' I said. 'I've saved the best till last. I think I know how he killed Sol Kipper.'
The detective stared at me for a moment.
'Let's have another beer,' he said.
'There's an old gentleman who lives in the apartment across the hall from me,' I said. 'He's confined in a wheelchair and he's been rather lonely. Sometimes when I come home from work, he's waiting for me in his chair on the landing. Just to talk, you know. Well, a few times in the past month I've gotten home early, and he didn't know I was already in my apartment, and when I came out later, there he was on the landing, waiting for me.'
Stilton looked at me, puzzled.
'So?' he asked.
'That's what gave me the idea of how Knurr killed Sol Kipper. I was already inside the apartment.'
He had started to take a gulp of beer, but suddenly put his full glass back on the bar and sat there, staring straight ahead.
'Yeah,' he breathed. 'That sucker! That's how he did it.
Let me tell you: He was in the house all the time. Probably hiding in one of those empty rooms. Only Tippi knew he was there. She leaves her husband, comes downstairs.
Knurr goes up to the master bedroom on the fifth floor and wastes Sol Kipper. Maybe with one of those karate chops of his or with the famous blunt instrument — who knows? Then he carries — '
'No,' I said, 'that's no good. Sol Kipper wasn't a heavy man, but it would have been a difficult task to carry him up that narrow rear staircase to the sixth floor. I think Knurr rang for the elevator and took Kipper's body up that way.'
'Right,' Stilton said decisively. 'The first blues on the scene found the elevator on the sixth floor. All right, he gets Sol up on the terrace and throws him over. I mean literally throws him. That's why the body was so far from the base of the wall.'
'Then Knurr goes down — How does he go down?'
'He takes the stairs. Because the elevator door on the main floor can be seen from the kitchen. And also, the elevator was found on the sixth floor by the first officers to arrive.'
'Tippi fainted,' I reminded him, 'or pretended to.'
'Sure. To give Knurr time to get downstairs. Then he goes out the front door, turns right around, rings the bell, and waits for the butler to let him in.'
'Yes,' I said, nodding, 'I think so. You can't see the front door from the kitchen, so even if they were inside when he exited, he was safe. Perce, I think he stayed in the house overnight. The butler keeps a house diary of visitors, deliveries, and so forth. He has a record of the Reverend Godfrey Knurr arriving on Tuesday the 23rd, the day before Kipper died.'
'Oh wow,' Percy said, 'that's beautiful. I hate to admit it, but I got to admire him for that. The balls!'
'Then you think that's how it was done?' I said eagerly.
'Got to be,' Perce said. ' Got to! Everything fits. It was just a matter of planning and timing. That guy is one cool cat. When we take him, I'm bringing a regiment of marines. But what about the suicide note?'
'I can't explain it,' I confessed. 'Right now I can't. But I'm going to give it some thought.'
'You do that,' he said, patting my arm. 'Give it some thought. I'm beginning to think Roscoe Dollworth knew exactly what he was doing when he got you the job. Chief Investigator? You better believe it! Josh, I think now I got enough to ask my loot to reopen the Kipper case. I'll lay out the whole shmeer for him, how it ties into the Stonehouse disappearance, and how — '
'Perce,' I said, 'could you hold off for just a day or two?'
'Well. . sure, but why?'
'I'm trying to set up a conference with Mr Tabatchnick 321
and Mr Teitelbaum. Teitelbaum's the senior partner who represents the Stonehouse family. I want to tell the two of them everything we've discovered and suggest how the two cases are connected. I want them to let me devote all my time to the investigation and stick to it no matter how long it takes. I'd like you to be there at the conference. They have some clout, don't they? Political clout?'
'I guess they do.'
'Well, if we get them on our side first, won't it help you to get the Kipper case reopened and maybe be assigned to it full time?'
'Maybe it would,' he said slowly. 'Maybe it would at that.' He ruffled my hair with his fingertips. 'You're a brainy little runt,' he said.
I didn't resent it at all.
We were back on the sidewalk, about ready to part, when Stilton snapped his fingers.
'Oh Jesus!' he said. 'I forgot to tell you. There was nothing in Records on Knurr, which was why I pulled that scam at the church office. Just to get some background on the guy. But Tippi Kipper — she's another story. She's got a sheet. It goes back almost twenty years — but it's there.'
'She's done time?' I said unbelievingly.
'Oh no,' the detective said. 'Just charged. No record of trial or disposition.'
'Charged?' I said. 'With what?'
'Loitering,' he said, 'for the purpose of prostitution.'
4
Before I left for work early Wednesday morning, I slid a note under Cleo's door: 'Mr Joshua Bigg respectfully requests the pleasure of Miss Cleo Hufnagel's company at dinner in Mr Bigg's apartment tonight, Wednesday, at 8.00 p.m. Dress optional. RSVP.'
I went off to work planning the menu.
I found a memo on my desk from Ada Mondora stating that Mr Teitelbaum and Mr Tabatchnick would meet with me in the library at 2.00 p.m. I called Percy, but he wasn't in. I left a message asking him to call back as soon as possible. I then started to type notes on our meeting with Bishop Harley Oxman for the Kipper file.
I was interrupted by a nervous call from Mrs Gertrude Kletz. She had broken a tooth and the dentist could only take her at eleven o'clock. Would it be acceptable if she came in from twelve to four? I told her that would be fine.
A cabdriver called who claimed to have picked up Professor Stonehouse on the night of January 10th. He described his passenger as being short, in his middle 40s, with a noticeable limp.
'Sorry,' I said, 'that's not the man.'
'No harm in trying,' he said cheerfully and hung up.
The next call was from Percy Stilton. I told him about the meeting with Teitelbaum and Tabatchnick at 2.00
p. m., and he said he'd do his best to make it. Then he told me that he had visited Glynis Stonehouse's former employer, Atlantic Medical Research, that morning.
'They stock enough poison to waste half of Manhattan,'
Stilton reported. 'And they've got a very lax control system. The poison cabinet has a dimestore lock that could be opened with a heavy breath. The supervisor is the only one with a key, but he keeps it in plain view, hanging on a board on his wall, labelled. He's in and out of his office a hundred times a day. Anyone who works in the place could lift the key, use it, and replace it without being noticed.
Every time a researcher takes some poison he's supposed to sign a register kept in the poison locker stating how 323
much he took, the date, and his name. So I had the supervisor run a total on the arsenic trioxide withdrawn and check it against the amount they started with and how much was there this morning. Over two ounces is unaccounted for. He couldn't understand how that could happen.'
'I can,' I said. 'Two ounces! She took enough to kill the old man ten times.'
'Sounds like,' Stilton agreed, 'but no way to prove it.
Now they're going to tighten up their poison control procedure. By the way, Glynis Stonehouse wasn't fired; she left voluntarily. Cleaned out her desk one Friday and called on Monday to say she wasn't coming in. Didn't even give them a reason or excuse; just quit cold. Well, I've got to run, Josh. I'm going to try to get over to the 79th Street boat basin around noon. And if possible, I'll see you at two o'clock.'
I finished typing up my notes on the Bishop Oxman interview and began trying to compose a rough agenda for the meeting that afternoon with the two senior partners. I knew I would make a better impression if my presentation was organized, brief, succinct.
I was scribbling notes when the phone rang again. It was another cabdriver and the conversation followed the usual pattern:
'How much is the reward?' he asked in a gargling voice.
'A hundred dollars,' I said automatically, continuing to make notes as I spoke.
'Well,' he said, 'it isn't much, but it's better than a stick up the nose. I think I picked up the guy. About January 10th. It could have been then. On Central Park West and maybe 70th or 71st. Around there.'
'What time?'
'Oh, maybe nine o'clock at night. Like that. I was working nights then. I'm on days now.'
'Do you remember what the weather was like?'
'That night? A bitch. Lousy driving. Sleety. I was ready to pack it in when this guy practically threw himself under my wheels, waving his arms.'
'Do you remember what he looked like?'
'The only reason I remember, he gave me such a hard time. I wasn't driving fast enough. I was taking the long way. The back of the cab was littered and smelled. And so forth and so on. A real ball-breaker, if you know what I mean.'
I put my pen aside and took a deep breath. It was beginning to sound encouraging,
'Can you describe him physically?'
'Hat, scarf, and overcoat,' the cabdriver said. 'An old geezer. Tall and skinny. Stooped over. Ordinarily I don't take a lot of notice of who rides my cab, but this guy was such a fucking asshole I remember him.'
He was sounding better and better.
'And where did you take him?' I asked, closing my eyes and hoping.
'The 79th Street boat basin,' the cabdriver said. 'And he gives me a quarter tip. In weather like that! Can you beat it?'
I opened my eyes and let my breath out in a long sigh.
'Would you tell me your name, please?' I said.
'Bernie Baum.'
'And where are you calling from now, Mr Baum?'
'Gas station on Eleventh Avenue.'
'We're on East 38th Street. If you'd be willing to come over and sign a short statement attesting to what you've just told me, you can pick up your hundred dollars.'
'You mean that was the guy?' he said.
'That was the guy,' I said.
'Well, yeah, sure,' he said, 'I'll sign a statement. It's the truth, ain't it? But listen, I wouldn't have to go to court or nothing like that, will I?'
'Oh no, no,' I said hurriedly. 'Nothing like that, it's just for our files.'
Maybe someday he would have to repeat his statement in court, but I wasn't about to tell him that.
'Well, I want to grab some lunch first,' he said, 'but I'll be over right after.'
'Fine,' I said heartily. 'Try to make it before one o'clock.'
I gave him our address and told him to ask for Joshua Bigg. I hung up, grinning. Percy Stilton had been right; the bad guys didn't have all the luck.
I typed out a brief statement to be signed by Bernie Baum that said only that he had picked up a man he later identified from a photograph as Professor Yale Stonehouse at approximately 9.00 p.m. on the evening of January 10th in the vicinity of Central Park West and 70th Street and had delivered him to the 79th Street boat basin.
I kept it as short and factual as possible.
Mrs Kletz arrived while I was finishing up. She said her tooth was feeling better and she felt well enough to put in her four hours.
I told her about Bernie Baum and she was as pleased as I was.
'A lot has happened since you read the Kipper and Stonehouse files,' I said. 'Sit down for a moment and I'll bring you up to date.'
She listened intently, sucking her breath in sharply when I told her about Glynis and Knurr.
'And that's where the cabdriver took Professor Stonehouse the night he disappeared,' I finished triumphantly.
But she was thinking of something else. Those young eyes seemed to have taken on a thousand-yard stare.
'Do you suppose, Mr Bigg,' she said in her light, lilting voice, 'do you suppose that either of the two women, Tippi Kipper or Glynis Stonehouse, knows of the other?'
I blinked at her. The question had never occurred to me, 326
and I was angry with myself because it should have.
'I don't know, Mrs Kletz,' I confessed. 'I'd say no, neither is aware of the other's existence. If there's anything Knurr doesn't need right now it's a jealous and vindictive woman.'
She nodded thoughtfully. 'I expect you're right, Mr Bigg.' She went back to her desk and began answering some of the routine requests. As for me, I ordered a pastrami on rye, kosher dill pickle, and tea from a Madison Avenue deli. Bernie Baum arrived and turned out to be a squat, middle-aged man with two days' growth of grizzled beard and a wet cigar. He was wearing a soiled plaid mackinaw and a black leather cap.
I handed him the statement I had prepared, and he took a pair of spectacles from his inside shirt pocket. One of the bows was missing and he had to hold the ramshackle glasses to his eyes to read.
Then he looked up at me.
'What'd this guy do?' he asked in his raspy, gargling voice. 'Rob a bank?'
'Something like that,' I said.
'It figures,' he said, nodding. 'Since I talked to you on the phone, I been trying to remember the guy better. I figure now he was nervous — you know? Something was bugging him and that's why he was bugging me.'
'Could be,' I said.
'Well,' said Bernie Baum judiciously, 'if he had a yacht stashed in that boat basin, he's probably in Hong Kong by now.'
'That could be, too,' I said. 'Now if you'll just sign the statement, Mr Baum, I'll get you your money.'
He signed Bernard J. Baum, with his address, and I made out a petty cash voucher for $100. We shook hands and I sent him up to the business office with Mrs Kletz. She was back in five minutes and told me Bernie Baum had received his cash reward and departed happily. She also 327
told me that Hamish Hooter had okayed the request with no demur. In victory, magnanimous…
Percy Stilton showed up right on time, dressed, I was happy to see, very conservatively in navy blue suit, white shirt, black tie. No jewellery. No flash. He had judged his audience to a tee. I showed him the statement the cabdriver had signed.
Percy sat there a moment, knees crossed, pulling gently at his lower lip.
'Uh-huh,' he said finally. 'We're filling in the gaps — slowly. Know what I think? Professor Stonehouse is down in the mud at the bottom of the Hudson River at 79th Street with an anchor tied to his tootsies. That's what I think. I checked out the boat basin about an hour ago.
There's a houseboat registered to a Mister Godfrey Knurr.
Not reverend, but mister. It's a fifty-foot fibreglass Gibson, and the guy I talked to told me it's a floating palace. All the comforts of home and then some.'
I sighed.
'It makes sense,' I said. 'It doesn't make sense to think a man like Knurr would be content to live in the back room of a dingy store down on Carmine Street.'
Percy was silent, and I glanced nervously at my watch.
We only had a few more minutes.
'Something bothering you?' I asked.
'Do you really think Knurr burned Kipper and Stonehouse?' he asked tonelessly.
'Kipper certainly,' I said. 'Probably Stonehouse.'
'That's how I see it,' he said, nodding sombrely.
'What's bothering me is this: we know of two. How many more are there we don't know about?'
I gathered up my notes and files and we took the elevator up to the library. Neither of us spoke during the ascent.
There was a note Scotch-taped to the library door:
'Closed from 2.00 to 3.00 p.m.' An effective notice to me 328
that I would be allotted one hour, no more. Stilton and I went in and took adjoining leather-padded captain's chairs at the centre of one of the table's long sides.
'Perce, can you get through this without smoking?' I asked him.
'Sure.'
'Try,' I said.
I arranged my files and papers in front of me. I went over my presentation notes. Then we sat in silence.
When Ignatz Teitelbaum and Leopold Tabatchnick entered together, at precisely 2.00 p.m., Stilton and I rose to our feet. I thought wildly that there should have been a fanfare of trumpets.
Both senior partners were wearing earth-coloured vested suits, with shirts and ties of no particular style or distinction. But there the resemblance ended. Tabatchnick, with his brooding simian posture, towered over Teitelbaum, who appeared especially frail and shrunken in comparison.
I realized with a shock that these two men had lived a total of almost a century and a half, and shared a century of legal experience. It was a daunting perception, and it took me a few seconds to gather my courage and plunge ahead.
'Mr Tabatchnick,' I said, 'I believe you've already met Detective Percy Stilton of the New York Police Department. Detective Stilton was involved in the initial inquiry into the death of Solomon Kipper.'
Tabatchnick gave Percy a cold nod and me an angry glare as he realized I had disobeyed his injunction against sharing the results of my investigation with the police.
I introduced Percy to Mr Teitelbaum. Again, there was an exchange of frosty nods. Neither of the partners had made any effort to sit down. My longed-for conference was getting off to a rocky start.
'Detective Stilton,' Mr Tabatchnick said in his most orotund voice, 'are we to understand that you are present in an official capacity?'
'No, sir, I am not,' the detective said steadily. 'I am here as an interested observer, and perhaps to contribute what I can to the solution of a dilemma confronting you gentlemen.'
I could have kissed him. Their eyebrows went up; they glanced at each other. Obviously they hadn't been aware they were confronted by a dilemma, and just as obviously wanted to hear more about it. They drew up chairs opposite us. I waited until everyone was seated and still.
'Gentlemen,' I started, 'it would save us all a great deal of time if you could tell me if each of you is aware of my investigation into the other's case. That is, Mr Teitelbaum, have you been informed of the circumstances surrounding the death of Sol Kipper? And, Mr Tabatchnick, are you — '
'Get on with it,' Tabatchnick interrupted testily. 'We're both aware of what's been going on.'
'As of your last reports,' Mr Teitelbaum added, his leather hands lying motionless on the table before him. 'I presume you have something to add?'
'A great deal, sir,' I said, and I began, using short declarative sentences and speaking as briskly as possible without garbling my words.
I was gratified to discover that I could speak extemporaneously and forcefully without consulting my notes. So I was able to meet the eyes of both men as I spoke, shifting my gaze from one to the other; depending on whether I was discussing matters relating to Kipper or Stonehouse.
It was like addressing two stone monoliths, as brooding and inexplicable as the Easter Island heads. Never once did they stir or change expression. Mr Teitelbaum sat back in his chair, seemingly propped erect with stiff, spindly arms thrust out, splayed hands flat on the tabletop. Mr Tabatchnick leaned forward, looming, his hunched shoulders over the table, heavy head half-lowered, the usual fierce 330
scowl on his rubbery lips.
Up through my account of recognizing one of Knurr's street Arabs among my attackers, neither of the attorneys had asked any questions or indeed shown any great interest in my recital. But my telling of the meeting I had seen at the 66th Street garage changed all that.
First of all, both men switched positions suddenly: Tabatchnick leaned back, almost fell back into his chair as if with disbelief, and Teitelbaum suddenly jerked forward, leaning over the table.
'You're certain of that, Mr Bigg?' he barked sharply.
'The Reverend Godfrey Knurr met Glynis Stonehouse? No doubt about it at all?'
'None whatsoever, sir,' I said decisively.
I explained that I had then requested a meeting with Detective Percy Stilton and told him everything that had occurred.
'It was necessary, gentlemen,' I said earnestly, 'because I needed Detective Stilton's co-operation to determine if anyone involved had prior criminal records. Detective Stilton will tell you the results of that investigation. To get back to your question, Mr Teitelbaum — was I certain that Knurr met Glynis Stonehouse? Yes, I am certain, because I saw them together again two nights ago.'
I then told them how I had shadowed Glynis Stonehouse to a rendezvous with Knurr and had tailed both of them to a houseboat at the 79th Street boat basin.
'Perce,' I said, 'will you take it from here?'
His recital was much shorter than mine, and delivered in toneless police officialese: 'the alleged perpetrator' and
'the suspect' and so forth. It was courtroom testimony, and both lawyers seemed completely familiar with the phrases and impressed by them.
He told them that he had never been completely satisfied with the suicide verdict in the Kipper case, and gave his reasons why. So, he explained, he had welcomed my in-331
dependent inquiry and co-operated every way he could, especially since he was impressed by the thoroughness and imaginative skill of my investigation.
I ducked my head to stare at the table as he continued.
He said his hope was that I would uncover enough evidence so that the NYPD would be justified in reopening the Kipper case. To that end, he had run the names of Godfrey Knurr and Tippi Kipper through the computer and discovered Tippi's arrest record. He told them about our interview with Bishop Harley Oxman and the revelation of Knurr's prior offence in Chicago.
He had also, he said, after I had furnished the lead, determined what was probably the source of the arsenic used to poison Professor Stonehouse: a medical research laboratory where Glynis Stonehouse had been employed less than a year ago.
Finally, he had discovered that Godfrey Knurr owned a houseboat moored at the 79th Street boat basin.
Then Stilton turned to me and I told them that a cabdriver had come forward that morning who remembered driving Professor Stonehouse to the boat basin on the night he disappeared.
I slid Baum's statement across the table to the senior partners, but neither reached for it. Both men were staring at Percy.
'Detective Stilton,' Mr Tabatchnick boomed in his magisterial voice, 'as a police officer with many years'
experience, do you believe that Godfrey Knurr murdered Solomon Kipper?'
'Yes, sir, I do. With premeditation.'
'But how?' Mr Teitelbaum asked in a mild, dreamy tone.
'I'll let Josh tell you that,' Percy said.
So I told them.
Mr Tabatchnick was the first to turn back to me.
'And the suicide note?' he asked.
'No, sir,' I said regretfully. 'I haven't yet accounted for that. But I'm sure you'll admit, sir, that the wording of the note is subject to several interpretations. It is not necessarily a suicide note.'
'And assuming the homicide occurred in the manner you suggest, you further assume that Tippi Kipper and the Reverend Godfrey Knurr were joined in criminal conspiracy? You assume that they planned and carried out the murder of Solomon Kipper because he had discovered, through the employment of Martin Reape, that his wife had been unfaithful to him with Godfrey Knurr and had decided to change his will to disinherit her to the extent allowed by law? You assume all that?'
'Yes, sir,' I said finally.
But now it was Mr Teitelbaum's turn.
'Do you further assume,' he said in a silky voice, 'that Professor Stonehouse, having discovered that his daughter had attempted to poison him, futhermore discovered that she was having an affair with Godfrey Knurr. And you assume that Stonehouse learned of the existence of Knurr's houseboat, by what means we know not, and resolved to confront his daughter and her paramour on the night he disappeared. And you suspect, with no evidence, that he may very well have been killed on that night. Is that your assumption?'
'Yes, sir,' I said, fainter than before. 'It is.'
We all sat in silence. The quiet seemed to go on forever, although I suppose it was only a minute or two before Mr Teitelbaum pushed himself from the table and leaned back in his chair.
'And what, precisely,' he said in an unexpectedly strong voice, 'do you suggest be done next in this unpleasant matter?'
'As far as I'm concerned,' Percy Stilton said, 'I'm going to tell my lieutenant the whole story and see if I can get the Kipper case reopened. You gentlemen might help me there — if you have any influence that can be brought to bear.'
'What would be the advantage of reopening the case?'
Leopold Tabatchnick asked.
'I would hope to get assigned to it full time,' the detective said. 'With more personnel assigned as needed.
To keep a stakeout on that houseboat so Knurr doesn't take off. To dig deeper into the backgrounds and relationships of the people involved. To check Knurr's bank account, and so forth. All the things that would be done in a homicide investigation.'
The two senior partners looked at each other again, and again I had the sense of communication between them.
'We are not totally without some influence,' Ignatz Teitelbaum said cautiously. 'We will do what we can to assist you in getting the Kipper case reopened. But I must tell you in all honesty that I am not optimistic about bringing this whole affair to a successful solution, even with the most rigorous homicide investigation.'
'I concur,' Mr Tabatchnick rumbled.
Mr Teitelbaum scraped his chair farther back from the table and, not without some difficulty, crossed his knees.
He sat there a moment, staring into space between Percy and me, not really seeing us. He was, I thought, composing his summation to the jury.
'First of all,' he said finally, 'I would like to compliment you gentlemen — and especially you, Mr Bigg — on your intelligence and persistence in this investigation.'
'Imaginative,' Mr Tabatchnick said, nodding.
'Creative.'
'Exactly,' Teitelbaum said. 'You have offered a hypothesis that accounts for all known important facts.'
'It may be accurate,' Tabatchnick admitted almost grudgingly.
'It may very well be. Frankly, I believe it is. I believe your assumptions are correct,' Teitelbaum concurred.
'But they are still assumptions,' Tabatchnick persisted.
'You have little that is provable in a court of law,'
Teitelbaum persevered.
'Certainly nothing that might justify legal action.'
Tabatchnick was firm.
'No eyewitness, obviously. No weapons. In fact, no hard evidence of legal value.' Teitelbaum was firmer.
'Merely thin circumstantial evidence in support of what is, essentially, a theory.' Tabatchnick.
'We don't wish to be unduly pessimistic, but you have told us nothing to indicate that continued investigation would uncover evidence to justify a criminal indictment.'
Teitelbaum.
'You are dealing here with a criminal conspiracy.' The judgment was from Tabatchnick, but the coup de grace was delivered by Teitelbaum as follows:
'Really two criminal conspiracies with one individual, Knurr, common to both.'
Perce looked at them dazedly. I was shattered. I thought their rapid dialogue was a prelude to ordering me to drop the investigation. I glanced at Percy Stilton. He was staring intently at the two attorneys. He seemed entranced, as if he were hearing something I couldn't hear, as if he enjoyed being a tennis ball in the Jurisprudential Open.
'It is an unusual problem,' Mr Tabatchnick intoned, inspecting the spotted backs of his clumpy hands.
'Sometimes unusual problems require unusual remedies.'
'When more than one person is involved in a major criminal enterprise,' Mr Teitelbaum said, uncrossing his knees and carefully pinching the crease back into his trousers, 'it is sometimes possible…'
His voice trailed away.
'You have shown such initiative thus far,' Mr Tabatchnick said, 'surely the possibility exists that. . '
His voice, too, faded into silence.
Then, to my astonishment, the lawyers glanced at each other, a signal was apparently passed, and they rose simultaneously to their feet. Percy and I stood up. They reached across the table and the two of us shook hands with both of them.
'I shall look forward to your progress,' Tabatchnick said sternly.
'I have every confidence,' Teitelbaum said in a more kindly tone.
Still stunned, I watched them move to the door. I was bewildered because I was sure they had told us something.
What it was I did not know.
Mr Teitelbaum had already opened the door to the corridor when he turned back to address me.
'Mr Bigg,' he said softly, 'is Tippi Kipper older than Glynis Stonehouse?'
'What?' I croaked. 'Oh yes, sir,' I said, nodding madly.
'By at least ten years. Probably more.'
'That might be a possibility,' he said pleasantly.
Then they were gone.
We sank back into our chairs. I waited as Percy lighted a cigarette, took two deep drags, and slumped down in his armchair. Clerks and paralegal assistants began to straggle into the library, heading for the stacks of law books.
I leaned towards Stilton. I spoke in a low voice.
'What,' I asked him, still puzzled, 'was that all about?
Those last things they said? I didn't understand that at all, I'm lost.'
Percy put his head far back and blew a perfect smoke ring towards the ceiling. Then, to demonstrate his expertise, he blew a large ring and puffed a smaller one within it.
'They're not lawyers,' he said, almost dreamily, 'they're pirates. Pi-rates! '
'What are you talking about?' I said.
'Incredible,' he said, shaking his head.
'Infuckingcredible. Teitelbaum and Tabatchnick. T and T.
Tnt. TNT. They're TNT all right. If I ever get racked up, I 336
want those pirates on my side.'
'Perce, will you please tell me what's going on?'
He straightened up in his chair, then hunched over towards me so our heads were close together.
'Josh, I think they're right. That's a hell of a plot you came up with about how Knurr offed Sol Kipper. Probably right on. But how are we going to prove it? Never. Unless we break Knurr or Tippi Kipper. Get one to spill on the other. And what have we got on Glynis Stonehouse? We can't even prove she tried to poison her father. She shacks up with Knurr on a houseboat. So what? It's not an indictable offence. Your bosses saw right away that the only way we're going to snap this thing is to get one of the main characters to sing.'
'And how are we going to do that?'
'Oh, T and T were so cute! ' he said, grinning and lighting another cigarette. 'You notice that not once did either of them say anything that could be construed as an order or instructions to do anything illegal. All they did was pass out a few vague hints.'
'But what did they say?' I cried desperately.
'Shh. Keep your voice down. They want us to run a game on Knurr. A scam. A con.'
I looked at him, startled.
'How are we going to do that?'
'Spook him. Him and the ladies. Stir them up. Let them know they're suspects and are being watched. Play one against the other. Work on their nerves. Wear them down.
Push them into making some stupid move. Guerilla warfare. Mousetrap them. You think Knurr and Tippi and Glynis are smarter than we are? I don't. They got some nice games running, and so far they've worked. Well, we can run plots just as clever. More. That's what T and T
were telling us. Run a game on these people and split them.
They were right; it's the only way.'
'I get it,' I said. 'Take the offensive.'
'Right!'
'And that last thing Teitelbaum said about Tippi Kipper being older than Glynis Stonehouse?'
'He was suggesting that we let Tippi know about Glynis.'
Before Perce and I took our leave of each other, we had decided on at least the first play of our revised game plan. I set about implementing it as soon as I got back to my office.
Mrs Kletz and I sat down to compose a letter which Mrs Kletz would then copy in her handwriting on plain paper.
The finished missive reads as follows:
Dear Mrs Kipper,
We have met casually several times, but I believe I know more about your private life than you are aware.
You'll see that I am not signing this letter. Names are not important, and I don't wish to become further involved. I am writing only with the best of intentions, because I don't want you to know the pain I suffered in a comparable situation.
Mrs Kipper, I happen to know how close your relationship is with the Reverend Godfrey Knurr. I hope you will forgive me when I tell you that your 'affair' is common knowledge and a subject of sometimes malicious gossip in the circles in which we both move.
I regret to inform you that the Reverend is also currently carrying on a clandestine 'affair' with a beautiful young woman, Glynis Stonehouse. Believe me when I tell you that I have irrefutable proof of their liaison which has existed for several months.
They have been seen together by witnesses whose word cannot be doubted. Their frequent trysts, always late at night, are held aboard his houseboat moored at the 79th Street boat basin. Were you aware that the Reverend Knurr owned a lavishly furnished houseboat and uses it for midnight meetings with this young 338
beautiful woman? And possibly others?
As I said, Mrs Kipper, I am writing only to spare you the agony I recently endured in a similar situation. I wish now that a concerned friend had written to me as I am writing to you, in time to prevent me from acting foolishly and deserting a loving husband and family for the sake of an unfaithful philanderer.
I have been able to obtain a photograph of the other woman, Glynis Stonehouse, which I am enclosing with this letter.
Forgive me for writing of matters which, I am sure, must prove painful to you. But I could not endure seeing a woman of your taste and refinement suffer as I suffered, and am suffering.
A FRIEND
When Mrs Kletz finished copying the letter, we sealed it with the snapshot of Glynis Stonehouse in a plain manila envelope. Mrs Kletz addressed it in her hand.
'Just ring the bell at the front gate,' I instructed her, as I prepared to send her out on this important assignment.
'The butler, a big man, will come out. Tell him you have a letter for Mrs Kipper, give it to him, and walk away as quickly as you can.'
'Don't worry, Mr Bigg,' she said. 'I'll get out of there fast.'
She put on her Tam O'Shanter and a loden coat as billowy as a tent and set out. A half-hour later I locked the Kipper and Stonehouse files securely away and left the office. Uncharacteristically I took a cab home, so anxious was I to find a message from Cleo. I found it slipped under my door: 'Miss Cleo Hufnagel accepts with pleasure Mr Joshua Bigg's kind invitation to dinner tonight in his apartment at 8.00 p.m.'
Smiling, I changed into parka and watch cap, and then checked my larder, refrigerator, and liquor supply. I made 339
out a careful list of things I needed and then set forth with my two-wheeled shopping cart. It was a cold, misty evening, and I didn't dawdle. I bought two handsome club steaks; baking potatoes; sour cream already mixed with chives; butter (should she prefer it to the sour cream); a head of iceberg lettuce; a perfectly shaped, plasma-coloured tomato; a cucumber the size of a tough, small U-boat, and just as slippery; a bottle of creamy garlic dressing; and a frozen blueberry cheesecake. I also purchased two small shrimp cocktails that came complete with sauce in small jars that could later be used as juice glasses. A paper tablecloth. Paper napkins. An onion.
I also bought a cold six-pack of Ballantine ale, two bottles of Chianti in raffia baskets, and a quart of California brandy. And two long red candles. On impulse I stopped at a florist's shop and bought a long-stemmed yellow rose.
She tapped on my door a few minutes after 8.00 and came in smiling. She bent swiftly to kiss my cheek. She had brought me a loaf of crusty sour rye from our local Jewish bakery. It was a perfect gift; I had forgotten all about bread. Fortunately I had butter.
I gave her the yellow rose, which came close to bringing tears to her eyes and earned me another cheek-kiss, warmer this time. I led her to my favourite armchair and asked her if she'd like a fire.
'Maybe later,' she said.
I poured a glass of red wine for her and one for myself.
'Here's to you,' I toasted.
'To us,' she said.
I told her what we were having for dinner.
'Sounds marvellous,' she said in her low, whispery voice. 'I like everything.'
Suddenly, due to her words or her voice or her smile, something struck me.
'What's wrong?' Cleo asked anxiously.
I sighed.:I bought a kite. And a ball of string and a winder. But I left them at the office. I forgot to bring them home.'
She laughed. 'We weren't going to fly it tonight. But I'm glad you remembered.'
'It's a red kite,' I told her. 'Listen, I have to go into the kitchen and get things ready. You help yourself to the wine.'
'Can't I come in with you?' she said softly. 'I promise I won't get in the way.'
I couldn't remember ever having been so content in my life. I think my feeling — in addition to the beamy effects of the food and wine — came from a realization of the sense of home. I had never known a real home. Not my own. And there we were in a tiny, messy kitchen, fragrant with cooking odours and the smoke of candles, quiet with our comfort, walled around and shielded.
It was a new experience for me, being with a woman I liked. Liked? Well. . wanted to be with. I didn't have to make conversation. She didn't have to. We could be happily silent together. That was something, wasn't it?
After dinner, she murmured that she'd help me clean up.
'Oh, let's just leave everything,' I said, which was out of character for me, a very tidy man.
'You'll get roaches,' she warned.
'I already have them,' I said mournfully, and we both smiled. Her large, prominent teeth didn't offend me. I thought them charming.
We doused the candles and straggled back to the living room. We decided a blaze in the fireplace would be superfluous; the apartment was warm enough. She sat in the armchair. I sat on the floor at her feet. Her fingers stroked my hair idly. I stroked her long, prehensile toes.
Her bare toes. She groaned with pleasure.
'Do you like me, Cleo?' I asked.
'Of course I like you.'
' Then, if you like me, will you rise from your comfortable chair, find the bottle of brandy in the bar, open it, and pour us each a small glass of brandy? The glasses are in the kitchen cupboard.'
'Your wish is my command, master,' she said humbly.
She was back in a few moments with glasses of brandy, handed me one and, while she was bent over, kissed the top of my head. Then she resumed her sprawling position in the armchair, and I resumed stroking her toes.
'It was a wonderful dinner,' she said sighing.
'Thank you.'
'I'm a virgin,' she said in exactly the same tone of voice she had said, 'It was a wonderful dinner.'
What could I answer with but an equally casual, 'Yes, you mentioned it last time.'
'Did I also mention I don't want to be?' she added thoughtfully.
'Ah,' I said, hoping desperately that I could eventually contribute something better than monosyllables. When it occurred to me almost at once that a lunge qualified as something better, the ice broke.
I have told you that she was tall. Very tall. And slender.
Very slender. But I was not prepared for the sinuous elegance of her body, its lithe vigour. And the sweetness of her skin. She was a rope dipped in honey.
Initially, I think, there was a certain embarrassment, a reticence, on my part as well as hers. But this reserve soon vanished, to be replaced by a vigorous tumbling. She was experiencing new sensations, entering a new world, and wanted to know it all.
'What's this?' she asked eagerly. 'And this?'
She was amazed that men had nipples capable of erection. She was delighted to learn that many of the things that aroused her, aroused me; that there could be as much (or more) pleasure in the giving as in the taking. She 342
wanted to know everything at once, to explore, probe, understand.
'Am I doing this correctly?' she asked anxiously. And,
'Is it all right if I do this?' and, 'What must I do now?'
'Shut up,' I replied.
We may have roared. We certainly cried out, both of us, and I dimly recall looking into a face transformed, ecstatic, and primitive. When it was over, we lay shuddering with bliss, so closely entwined that my arms ached with the strain of pulling her closer, as if to engulf her, and I felt the muscular tremor in those long, flexible legs locked about me.
'I love you,' she said later.
'I love you,' I said.
I buried my face in the soft hollow of neck and shoulder.
My toes caressed her ivory shins.
I interrupted our idyll for business reasons only once that evening. Feeling I had to be honest, I informed Cleo that I had to call the floozie spotted earlier leaving my apartment by the evil Finkel. Further, I would seemingly be arranging a rendezvous, really an interrogation. Should Cleo mistakenly conclude I was growing bored with her, I would be glad to prove her wrong as soon as I completed the call. She laughed and kissed me merrily.
The phone rang three times before Perdita Schug answered. 'Yes?'
'Perdita?'
'Yes. Who's this?'
'Joshua Bigg.'
'Josh!'
'I apologize for calling so late, Perdita. I hope I didn't wake you.'
'Don't be silly. I just came up. We had dinner for seven tonight. A lot of work.'
'Oh? Was Mr Knurr there?'
'No. Which was odd. First we were told there'd be eight.
But he didn't show up. Usually he's here all the time. Are you going to come by Mother Tucker's tomorrow night?'
'I'm certainly going to try,' I lied. 'Listen, Perdita, I have an unusual question to ask you. When Sol Kipper was alive, did he ever write notes to his wife? You know, little short notes he'd leave where she'd find them?'
'Oh sure,' she said promptly. 'He was always writing her notes. She was running around so much, and then he'd go out and leave a note for her. I read a few of them. Love notes, some, or just messages.'
'Did she keep them, do you think?'
'Tippi? I think she kept some of them. Yes, I know she did. I remember coming across a pile of them in a box of undies in her dressing room. Some of them were hilarious.
The poor old man was really in love with her. She had him hooked. And you know how.'
'Yes,' I said. 'Thank you very much, Perdita. Sorry to bother you.'
'And I'll see you tomorrow night?'
'I'm certainly going to try.' It was getting easier all the time.